Love Poems
by DeathandJunkfood
Summary: There's something a little bit magical about Lily's favourite bookshop... "Wizards couldn't do something like this, James." "What do you mean?" Lily shook her head. "We take magic for granted. We could never do this – never build a monument to it. We couldn't capture what it means. But Muggles can, because they can't hold it in their hands." Part of the Falling 'verse.


**_Disclaimer... these characters belong to JKR._**

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 _"Bea says that the art of reading is slowly dying, that it's an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind, and great readers are becoming more scarce by the day."_

 _― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind_

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"Lily?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are we here?"

"Why shouldn't we be?"

"I dunno – it's just-"

"A place for Muggles?"

"Well… _yes_."

From the outside, it was not attractive. There was no sign to advertise the bookshop, and a haphazard sprawl of red brick, boarded up windows and a corrugated iron roof gave the impression that it was only a few months away from demolition. For all that, the soot stained walls, the rough wood over the windows and the simple shape of it, somehow felt comforting. Looking at it, you could feel safe.

The door was the only beautiful part of it. Made of dark wood and shimmery metals, it was carved with phrases, words, quotes and strange, half-forgotten symbols. Perhaps beautiful was the wrong word. Mysterious was a better fit. The door felt exotic, and almost dangerous. It belonged in a thousand stories. It was the door to a magic castle and the gateway to a hidden world. It was the portal to a witch's lair and the entry to another dimension.

Lily had loved the bookshop for as long as she could remember. It was such an incongruous thing to find in _Cokeworth_ , of all places, where men in white button downs would arrive home promptly at five thirty, be kissed by their wives on their doorstops, and have a dinner of lamb chops and steamed broccoli.

Maybe Lily loved it because _she_ also didn't quite fit in Cokeworth.

Lily took James' hand and stepped up to the door, pushing lightly.

"Come on," she urged him. "You'll like it, promise."

James followed her in.

Books and pages of fluttering, vulnerable paper were towered into piles. The shelves had once made an attempt to restrain them, but they gave up long ago. No two books were the same. There were weathered paper backs and huge leather tomes. There were thin books of poetry, cloth bound. Tiny volumes protected by beaten copper. The walls seemed to bow slightly outward from the weight of the words contained within them. The bookshop felt like a garden gone wild, with vines hugging and tugging everything closer and closer.

"Are you sure this isn't a wizard shop?" James murmured, leaning close to her. He feels, suddenly, unexpectedly, at home, and he feels like Lily's giving him a piece of her soul.

Lily considered the shop for a moment, humming.

"Quite sure. Wizards couldn't do something like this, James."

"What do you mean?" James asked, following her into the stacks. She was trailing her fingers down the rows of books, caressing their spines.

Lily shook her head, sending dust motes spiralling.

"We take magic for granted. We could never do this – never build a monument to it. We couldn't capture what it means. But Muggles can, because they can't hold it in their hands."

He shot her a look. She sounded almost revenant, even though James could see the handle of her wand sticking out of her jacket pocket.

"How did you find this place?" he asked, wandering over to a shelf and picking up a book at random. It was heavy, leather bound, and sternly beautiful.

"It was raining," Lily said. "I was going to meet Sev – but it just started _pouring_ – I ducked in here without even seeing the door."

"That's _embarrassingly_ cliché."

"I _know_ , right?"

James couldn't see the end of the shelves, and he was reminded of the myth of the Minotaur and the maze. Lily had told it to him, one rainy day in November when they were stuck inside and he was talking about wizard legends.

 _"Ariadne only gave Theseus a ball of thread?" James had asked._

 _"I would've gone with you," Lily said, grinning._

 _"We could've just used the 'Point Me,' spell, y'know."_

 _"Where's the fun in that?" Lily asked._

"Does anyone actually work here?"

James placed the book back carefully, and Lily shrugged.

"I'm not sure. Whenever I buy a book, someone appears, but I've never seen anyone while browsing. Not even other customers."

"Weird."

"Little bit. Do you like it?" Lily asked abruptly, and she sounded almost shy.

She had given him a piece of her soul, but taking him here, and James realized she was nervous he wouldn't like it.

"I love it," he promises, picking up a book of poetry and opening it to a random page.

" _'I swear_ ,'" James reads alound. " _'Since seeing your face, the whole world is fraud and fantasy. The garden is bewildered as to what is leaf or blossom. The distracted birds can't distinguish the birdseed from the snare. A house of love with no limits, a presence more beautiful than venus or the moon, a beauty whose image fills the mirror of the heart.'_ "

"Rumi," Lily says, starting to smile.

"Who was he?" James wondered.

"He was a Persian poet. 13th century. His love poems are beautiful."

"It feels safe here," James commented.

"I know," Lily said, eyes sparkling. "That's one of the reasons I love it – I can come here, and I don't have to think about the war. I can find a better world for an hour or two."

Lily didn't mention that she'd brought Sev here once, and she'd seen the way he'd relaxed, instantly, letting his shoulders fall and letting every bit of protection around him fall for a single precious hour as she dragged him through the rows of books.

James had the same look about him – an awed vulnerability that made Lily's heart feel heavy with love. That night, they would have patrol, somewhere. They'd sit in the dark for hours, tense with fear and helplessness and wait for a muttered curse from a dark corner, nerves stretched tight.

She couldn't do it forever, without breaking, but this place offered a respite.

She plucked the book of poetry from James' hands and opened it to a new page.

" _'I have no life but this, to lead it here; nor any death, but lest dispelled from there; nor tie to earths to come, nor action new, except through this extent, the realm of you._ '"

James looked at her then and she was half taken aback at the depth of the love she saw there and then he was taking her in his arms, gently and they were kissing softly, surrounded by stories.

It felt like they were building their own story, arranging words and shifting them to reflect their lives and their love. Lily imagined their story bound in a soft cloth cover, maybe a deep blue. The title would be in gold, she thought.

She took James' face in her hands, sharing breath and warmth and tenderness, soft lips and soft hands and warm eyes. The kiss deepened and Lily tried to pour fear and gentleness and hope into it and the weight of all the knowledge around them.

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 _"Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens."_

 _― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind_

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 ** _A.N. Hi! Thanks for reading. This was absurdly self indulgent - that was literally 1000 words of Lily and James just reading love poems to each other. Oh well._  
**

 ** _The first poem was '_** _I Swear **' by Rumi.** **The second was '** I Have No Life But This **' by Emily Dickinson. I have no good explanation as to why they'd be in the same book of poetry. Anyways, hopefully you enjoyed, and it'd be great if you could drop a review!**  
_


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